Blu Aubergine Blog

In the "quaternity" of Roman pasta dishes, pasta alla carbonara, in my opinion, is tied for first place. (I have to give it up for the only pasta dish with a tomato-based sauce, all'amatriciana). Carbonara holds a special place in my heart as a dish I learned to make as a student in Florence 26 years ago. The backstories are myriad, including one falsely perpetuated by countless tour guides in Rome that this was the pasta version of bacon and eggs beloved by American soldiers, who brought the flavor combo to Italy during World War II.

But no, though this is a dish eaten in various parts of the Italian peninsula, carbonara is a classically Roman dish, with Roman roots. This is proven by one of its key ingredients: guanciale, a distinctly Roman cut of pig that is its cured, highly-spiced jowl. This guanciale gives the carbonara sauce its unctuous undertones and the emulsified sheen in its egg yolk-enriched sauce. In reality, a carbonara is not a real carbonara if it uses pancetta (or heaven forbid...bacon!) as the porky element in the dish. Of course, the dish gets its saltiness from the cheese used: unequivocally pecorino romano (never parmigiano! Never grana padano!), a Roman sheep's milk hard aged cheese and the saltiest of the grating cheeses in the Italian culinary repertoire. This is another clue to the dish's Roman origin. The cracked black pepper is important as well -- the little flecks supposedly represent coal, as the dish is named after coal miners (carbonari) -- another origin story of this dish. Some claim the pasta was instead favored by the Carbonari, a secret political society of nationalists who tried to revolutionize Italy in the early 19th century (predating Italian unification), though dried pasta was not readily available to the general population until after World War II, so this is unlikely. Some believe it was created at a restaurant in Rome called "La Carbonara" (which could certainly be true, in terms of timeline and location). Whatever the correct origin story, the important thing to remember? This dish is Roman. It must be treated as such.

Now, I've had plenty of "inauthentic" carbonaras in Italy (not Rome) that used pancetta to pretty good effect, and even...dare I say...used a touch of heavy cream to help with the consistency of the sauce. This is heresy to a Roman cook, however. And since I like to stick to the classic preparation before allowing adept chefs to deviate from the original (one must study Renaissance art before one can paint like Picasso or Pollock, after all), I will present you here with a classic Roman recipe. One thing to remember, however: it is never, ever, EVER okay to add peas to a carbonara. Ever. Thank you and buon appetito.

- Once the water comes to a rolling boil, add a generous couple of pinches of salt (the water should be briny, almost like seawater), and toss in the pasta and stir. Cook pasta until al dente. (*Note: in the photo here, the white ring of still-uncooked pasta at the center of the shape means the pasta is al dente, and should be removed from the water immediately).

-Heat a large skillet over medium heat, add the olive oil, and then add the guanciale (or pancetta), cooking until lightly browned and almost crisp.

- Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, whisk the eggs with the salt, pepper, and ½ cup of the pecorino cheese.

- When the pasta is al dente, drain the pasta and add directly to the pan where the guanciale was cooked (the pan should be warm but turn the flame off before adding the pasta).

- Add the egg mixture to the pan and toss pasta and guanciale to coat. This is the tricky step: the egg sauce should be warm enough that it thickens to form a sauce (not just raw eggs), but shouldn’t be so hot that the eggs cook and become scrambled. Turn on a low flame if necessary to help gently cook the egg sauce.

With the weather turning warmer, sometimes the thought of a big serving of protein as a main course -- a piece of chicken or a steak, for instance -- can sound heavy in this season, even if simply grilled. My go-to secondo on balmy Roman nights was always, and remains, one of the most beloved but least-discussed dishes in the Roman culinary canon: straccetti. These are torn, as the word means in English, thinly-sliced pieces of beef made to look like rags (straccci). But the slightly disparaging-sounding name belies the deliciousness of this dish.

The shaved beef slices are quickly sautéed in a pan with some olive oil and a little garlic. They're done in batches, if you're making several servings for a group (as pictured above). When all of the beef pieces are cooked through, you turn up the flame and simply add your acid: here, I used both balsamic vinegar and red wine, but some just use white wine and a squeeze of lemon, others use only balsamic, and so on. Finish with some olive oil at the end (and shhhh...a bit of butter). Then, the straccetti get served on a bed of arugula, or rughetta, in Roman dialect. I like to add a few finishing flourishes, like cherry tomatoes and scaglie (shavings) of parmigiano cheese. In Jewish Roman cooking, artichokes are added to the mix, sometimes in place of the arugula, which is also a great combo. But however you prepare it, the liquid from cooking the beef always gets used as a kind of warm vinaigrette to dress the dish (once again, nothing gets wasted in Italian cooking), and voilá! You have a simple second course that's easy enough to make for one person on a work night, but is also great for groups -- a real crowd-pleaser. This is always paramount when you have a group of 12 hungry diners awaiting their meal...

- In a large sauté pan, heat a few spoonfuls of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add a garlic clove and let it cook for 20-30 seconds.

- Add just enough of the the thinly-sliced beef to fit in the pan without being crowded, and cook, moving the beef around the pan so it doesn't stick, until the redness has turned to brown and the beef is cooked through. Season with salt and pepper, and transfer to a bowl.

- Continue with the remaining beef in this way, until all of the beef has been cooked through and seasoned.

- Return the beef to the pan over medium-high heat, and when it starts sizzling, add the wine, cooking to evaporate the alcohol, for about a minute. Add the balsamic, and let that cook for about 3 minutes more. Taste and season appropriately.

- Throw in the butter and allow it to melt into the sauce. Taste again and adjust the seasoning.

- On a plate or platter, arrange the baby arugula, then place the beef on top of the arugula, using tongs. Top with the tomatoes.

- Spoon the pan sauce over the dish, then top with the parmigiano shavings and a drizzle of olive oil.

BUON APPETITO!

* Serve with bread to properly fare una scarpetta (mop the sauce with the bread) afterwards.

It's only been about a week since we were wearing winter coats and wool sweaters in New York. Winter weather seemed interminable, and temperatures lingered in the forties throughout most of April (uggghhhh). An upside to this is that our citrus supply seems to be happily lingering as well. We still find oranges and clementines and tangerines, lots of various citrus fruits in the markets.

And so, with this abundance, and with a sunny, springy outlook now that May is here, I created an Italian-inspired (specifically Sicilian-inspired) olive oil cake with plenty of citrus zest in the batter -- even a little juice -- and of course, top-quality Italian extra virgin olive oil. The frosting is my favorite kind, of course: cream cheese. The tangy zip of this topping holds its own against the acidic zing of the citrus cake itself, and pairs wonderfully with the fresh citrus fruit I arrange on top of the cake, both for fresh citrus flavor and for gorgeous added aesthetic appeal. There's even a touch of fresh rosemary in the batter, so I've garnished the top with some sprigs as well (rosemary pairs so well with citrus).

The additional good news for the gluten-averse? I made this cake with only a touch of AP flour, which is optional, because the bulk of the dry ingredients here is comprised of almond flour. This provides for a very tender crumb and super-moist cake with a golden, almost crunchy shell. It's a pretty fabulous recipe, if I do say so myself. My husband, the healthy trainer with a sweet tooth, loved it -- and finished this one off even more quickly than usual!

I hope this cake brings a little Sicilian sunshine into your kitchen -- and I'd love to hear about your modifications, if you make any, in the comments section. Enjoy!

For the citrus topping:Various supremes or rounds of fresh citrus, rosemary sprigs for garnish

- Preheat oven to 350 degrees, butter an 8- or 9-inch springform pan- Grate zest of 2 oranges and mix into the sugar in a bowl, with your fingers to distribute evenly.- Supreme 2 oranges: cut off the bottom and top and run a knife along the rounded shape of the fruit to remove the peel and pith (white part). Cut the orange segments from between the connective membrane and collect with juice in a bowl. Tear segments into bite-size pieces.- Halve the 3rd orange and squeeze the juice into a measuring cup. Add the yogurt to reach 2/3 cup total. Pour this liquid mixture in the bowl with the sugar, and mix.- Add the 3 eggs to the sugar-liquid.- In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and soda, and salt. Whisk these dry ingredients into the bowl with the wet ingredients in 2 batches. Fold in orange segments and the diced rosemary.- Whisk in the olive oil into the batter until it comes together and is mixed thoroughly.- Pour batter into the pan and smooth the top. Bake for about 50 - 60 minutes, and test for doneness after 50. The top should be golden brown and almost crusty, and a toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean.- Cool to room temperature. Move to a cake plate.- To make the frosting, soften the cream cheese to room temperature. Beat with a hand mixer or a stand mixer until the cream cheese is light and airy. Add the confectioner's sugar, 1/2 cup at a time, until desired tangy-sweetness. You can add a touch of orange juice or zest for sweetness, if you like.- Frost the cake and place the rounds of fresh citrus on top to decorate, along with fresh rosemary sprigs.

Since the response to the photo I posted on social media elicited quite a few oohs and ahhs, I promised some people I'd post the recipe in my blog's "Recipe By Request" section. But first, of course, I had to write the recipe.

For this particular recipe, we're talking the classic Italian IN GUAZZETTO preparation, which basically means it's something slowly stewed in what it usually olive oil, white wine, a little broth, and often cherry tomato, onion, and garlic. It's a standard, particularly in southern Italy, where it's most commonly made with seafood or fish of some kind. This version is a bit fancier than your average in guazzetto, but fully in the tradition of using local ingredients and flavors of the southern half of the Italian peninsula. The stew is often served in some kind of shallow stew pot, cast-iron mini skillet, or some such stove-to-table vessel. It's a rustic presentation that I love.

Squid -- calamari, in Italian -- can be a tricky creature to cook, though I adore making it and eating it, for its versatility and briny, tender deliciousness...when it's done right, that is. Who hasn't endured a rubbery squid situation, which becomes an over-mastication situation, which is elevated to a sore jaw and where-can-I-spit-this-out dilemma? Don't let it reach an I-refuse-to-cook-calamari-conundrum! Following a few easy steps will provide you with a painless calamari cooking experience. The basic theory is this: squid is a protein which benefits from either a very quick, 2-3 minute toss in the pan (or deep fryer), or a longer, lower-temp stew on the stove. It's about hitting that sweet spot -- or rather, about avoiding the peak of the hill. What do I mean? Fammi spiegare (let me explain).

Basically all proteins all have a little cooking hill, as it were. A short cooking time will allow them to cook either to rare, or medium rare (in the case of a more dense protein like a steak or a chop), or juuuust enough to be perfectly tender and cooked through to be edible, as in the case with shrimp, scallops, calamari, etc. The longer you cook them, the higher up that hill you climb. When you reach the top of the hill is when the protein has reached its most firm, fully-cooked point -- which is when you DON'T want to eat it. Think a well-done steak, or shrimp that's been cooked to the point of being rolled up little balls of iodine-laden beach pebbles. Non bene! What we want is the sweet spot on almost-flat ground, as it were. So, you either sear the steak and enjoy it medium-rare, or throw it in a stew for 3 hours and enjoy the falling-apart tenderness that is a good boeuf daube. Similarly, calamari is either flash-fried or -sauteed, or stewed for longer, though the longer cooking time for squid is far shorter than for a beef stew. It's more like 3 minutes on the short end or 30 minutes-plus on the long end. Still, time flies when you're stewing calamari! (Okay no one says that, but we could try to make it a thing). As you will learn from doing, the slow braise is totally worth it and really a cinch once you get the hang of it. The recipe that follows is proof positive of that.

(*'nduja sausage can be hard to find, though it's DEFINITELY worth seeking out. A decent substitute would be andouille sausage, whipped in a food processor with some olive oil to soften -- or even a soft Mexican chorizo could fill in here. Otherwise, make your own mixture of smoked bacon or pork belly, lots of chili flakes, and olive oil or lard pulsed in a food processor).

- Heat a cast iron or heavy-bottomed skillet on medium-high until when you hold your hand over it, you can feel a good bit of heat. Pour in enough of the olive oil to coat the bottom of the skillet. - Throw in the celery and onion and let that cook for 2-3 minutes until it begins to soften. Add the sliced garlic. Turn the heat down to medium.- Toss in the calamari and 1/2 of the cherry tomatoes, 'nduja, and capers + brine, and stir to mix the flavors up a bit. Cover and cook on medium-low for 5 minutes.- Remove the cover and pour in the white wine. Let this cook, cover off, for another 5 minutes until the alcohol burns off but you still have plenty of liquid. - Sprinkle in some salt and pepper to taste and cover the calamari and continue cooking on medium-low for another 10 minutes.- Remove the cover, toss in the second half of the cherry tomatoes, a bit more olive oil, and cover again to cook for another 10 minutes or so (if the calamari is a little dry here, you can add the fish stock, or even water, at this point).- Test for doneness of the calamari. If it's not tender enough, keep cooking over low heat, covered, until it is.- When calamari is tender, remove the cover and add the lemon juice and half of the chopped parsley. Taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed.- Finish with a drizzle of olive oil and the rest of the freshly chopped parsley, and serve directly from the cooking skillet/vessel, with plenty of crusty bread to sop up the delicious sauce!

Hanukkah, the festival of lights, is a celebration of the reclaiming and rededicating (Hanukkah means "dedication") of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem in the second century BCE. The oil used to light the menorah in the temple, thought only enough to last for a night, lasted for eight days instead -- hence the festival of lights. Culinarily speaking, this translates to celebrating this oil with lots of fried goodies. Latkes, or potato pancakes -- and really fritters of any kind -- are present on most Hanukkah tables. Sufganiyot, or donuts in Hebrew, are basically the sweet version of fritters. They're delicious, and surprisingly to some, easy enough to make at home. In closing out this year's festival of lights, what better way to top off eight days of gluttonous fried foods than with the ultimate fried dessert?

There is a long tradition among both Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews linking fried donuts, in various forms, with Hanukkah. North African tradition melds with the Jewish tradition of associating sfenj (the smaller, deep-fried donuts) with Hanukkah. In Israel, where Central and East European Jews mingled with North African Jews, the Yiddish ponchkes (similar to the German berliner, the Polish paczki, or the Russian ponchik) became part of this tradition.

Angel Bakeries, the largest bakery in Israel, reportedly fries up more than 250,000 sufganiyot every day during the eight-day Hanukkah festival. Local newspapers add to the excitement by sending out food critics each year to rate the best sufganiyah in town. As a result of the national hubbub, some purveyors have elevated the basic filling recipe to an art form. The most basic version is filled with plain red fruit jelly, while more expensive versions are piped with chocolate cream, dulce de leche, vanilla cream, cappuccino pastry cream, and even the Israeli anise-flavored liqueur called araq, and topped with various extravagant toppings, from coconut shavings to meringue and sprinkles and flavored glazes. Even Burger King got in on sufganiyah fever last year with the "SufganiKing" -- a burger with the bun replaced by sweet donut halves, which as BK notes "proves that miracles still happen"!

Here is my basic recipe. Below that, I'll post a link to my recipe as published on The Daily Meal a few years ago. You can get creative with both the fillings and the toppings. I like a salted caramel filling with a dark chocolate glaze (or the reverse), a Meyer lemon curd filling (with a lemon poppyseed glaze, yum!), a fruit cream filling with various chocolate and candy toppings, or a classic jam filling -- try fig -- topped with a simple dusting of powdered sugar. Whatever your personal palate dictates, one thing we know is that It's time to make the donuts!

Directions

- Mix together the yeast, 2 tablespoons of sugar, and the milk. Let sit until it bubbles.- Sift the flour and mix with the remaining sugar, salt, cinnamon, egg yolks, and yeast mixture.- Knead the dough until it forms a ball. Add the butter/margarine. Knead some more, until the butter is well absorbed into the mixture. - Cover with a towel and let it rise overnight, or at least 2 hours, in the fridge.

- Roll out the dough to a thickness of 1/8 inch. Cut the dough into 24 rounds with a juice glass or any object with a 2-inch diameter.- Brush the 12 rounds with beaten egg whites. Take 1/2 teaspoon of the cranberry sauce and place in center of 12 rounds. Press down at edges, crimping with the thumb and second finger to seal. Let rise for 30 minutes.Heat 2 inches of oil in a pan, to about 375 degrees.Drop donuts into the hot oil, about 5 at a time, not crowding the pan. Turn to brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels and roll the donuts in sugar.

The Italians know a thing or two about parsimonious cooking, about making something incredibly delicious and soul-satisfying out of something lowbrow or unexciting. And the further south you go along the Italian peninsula, the stronger that capacity grows. Sicilian cuisine is the shining example of this modo di cucinare.

A delicious Sicilian pasta dish that highlights the culinary transition from everyday-to-divine is one using a "lowly" cruciferous vegetable, often overlooked because of its pale color, and considered (mistakenly) to lack nutritional content: cauliflower. Cauliflower itself is actually very nutritious, as are all cruciferous veggies (like broccoli and cabbage) -- it's full of Vitamin C, Vitamin K, folate, and a slew of antioxidants and anti-carcinogens that make weekly consumption of the vegetable a real boon to anyone's diet. And with a preparation as delicious as this one, it can become a fabulous staple in a nutritious meal plan. As for its use in this dish, it's enhanced by the agrodolce (sweet-sour) combination of the dried sultanas and toasted almonds -- classic Sicilian. And because even grated cheese is a luxury many in the poorer areas of Sicily can't afford, herbed toasted bread crumbs are used in place of cheese. If you need the dish to be wholly vegetarian, you can leave out the anchovy.

Please note: this dish can be prepared without the pasta, served as a side dish to round out a meal. Tossing it with pasta just makes for a satisfying lunch or delicious dinner, and one that's quite wallet-friendly as well. It's perfect for everything from a meatless Monday meal to a dinner party dish. Buon Appetito!

- Start by par-cooking the cauliflower in a large pot of boiling water, salted well. Keep the water to cook the pasta in, and remove the cauliflower from the boiling water once cooked until softened, about 5 minutes. Drain in a colander or bowl.

- In a large saute' pan, heat 1/4 cup of the olive oil with the whole garlic cloves. After 1 minute of heating up, add the anchovy, onion, and peperoncino and cook until the onion turns translucent, about 3 minutes.

- Add the cauliflower to the saute' pan and the white wine, and cook until the wine has burned off a bit, about a minute. Then cook, covered, for about 5-7 minutes, until the caulifower has softened and begins to break down a bit.

- Toss the pasta into the boiling, salted cauliflower water and cook until just barely al dente.

- While the pasta is cooking, add the sultanas and capers to the cauliflower and cook to brown the cauliflower a bit. Add olive oil as needed. Add salt and pepper to taste.

- When the pasta is just shy of al dente, remove from the cooking water and transfer t o the saute pan with the cauliflower. Add the slivered almonds and the parsley, and toss to coat. Cook for an additional 2 minutes in the pan and at the very end, toss the rest of the olive oil and half of the breadcrumbs in with the pasta, toss to coat.

- Serve the pasta in pasta plates and sprinkle with the toasted bread crumbs. Enjoy!

Italy is dealing with a natural disaster of grave proportions right now. Again. The earthquake that struck central Italy in the areas of Rieti and Amatrice has devastated several beautiful and charming hill towns (of which there seem to be countless iterations peppered throughout Lazio, Umbria, Abruzzo, and Le Marche). These are the core of Italy's charming and historic central regions that span from the Tyrrhenian Sea in the west to the Adriatic on the east coast. In a country obscenely rich in tourist attractions of every variety, these smaller towns often get overlooked by many travelers -- often to the delight of local residents. These hill towns, somewhat unfortunately, are nestled in the Apennine mountains, which are essentially the geological spine of Italy, and run along a fault line where Eurasian and African tectonic plates meet. So, as we saw seven years ago in L'Aquila, activity along these fault lines can be disastrous, and deadly. The images of Amatrice before and after, for example, are sad and humbling.

I've spent plenty of time in these central regions of Italy, as friends have houses in the countryside from Lazio to Umbria, from southern-central Tuscany over to Ascoli-Piceno in Le Marche. I've attended countless sagre (food and wine festivals) in these parts, traveled through mountainous, winding roads, often in search of a great little restaurant off the beaten path. My memories of these parts, and the people here, are numerous, and fond.

So it was heartbreaking last week that I was receiving play-by-play texts from friends a little too close for comfort to the epicenter of the earthquake, experiencing very scary after-shocks. And what saddened me to no end is the reality that last weekend was supposed to be the 50th annual sagra (festival) of Amatrice's most famous (namesake) dish, pasta all'amatriciana.

I know many restaurants, both in Italy and in America, are helping out victims and towns that suffered heavy damages in the earthquake by donating a portion of their sales of pasta all'amatriciana to Italy's red cross. And that's great, but I don't have a restaurant and all I can do is encourage others to donate as much and as often as possible.

As comfort, I can instruct and share my recipe for my favorite Roman pasta dish. It's one that I turn to time and again, and it happens to be best at this time of year, when tomatoes are at their sweetest and most flavorful.

A little note: guanciale is THE meat of choice in Roman pasta dishes. It may not always be possible to find it, but I promise you the search for authentic ingredients will always pay off. Pancetta (unsmoked bacon) can be used in a pinch, but guanciale is cured pork jowl, and the flavor is much more unctuous and distinctive. It does, in fact, go a long way towards making a good amatriciana into a great amatriciana. And so, without further delay, my trusted recipe for this Roman classic...

BUCATINI ALL’AMATRICIANA (4-6 people)

This is one of a few quintessential Roman pasta dishes. You’ll find as many different versions as there are trattorie in Rome: some prefer the guanciale soft, some crispy; some prefer a thin sauce, some a more chunky, hearty tomato sauce; some use any short pasta, others insist on the thick hollow spaghetti known as bucatini. Here is the version I prefer after years and years of trial, revision, and much animated discussion among my Roman friends. But 2 things are a must for the integrity of the dish: 1.) the meat must be guanciale, cured pork jowl and not any old pancetta, and 2.) the cheese must be the sharp, salty pecorino romano, not the more common parmigiano reggiano.

It started with a conversation to alleviate the drudgery of prep work in the kitchen of San Domenico NY many years ago. I was filleting some black bass, methodically removing pin bones, careful not to stick myself with the spiky fins (as I'd done before, which caused my entire hand to blow up to twice its size and sent me to an emergency doctor. Fun!) When doing prep work in the kitchen, I sometimes asked one of the dishwashers to help me, because they were friendly and fun and they were interested in cooking professionally some day. My attitude was always "the more the merrier" when in came to kitchen work. So I started chatting with Mbulli, the Ghanaian dishwasher who was helping me with my task. And we started discussing fishing, and fish preparation. So I asked him how he might prepare a whole fish like the sea bass we were working on that day -- or any fish he might have at home in Ghana -- and he told me, very simply. "I would make it with chilies, and citrus like orange, and cilantro." And that stuck with me. I always thought that idea sounded fantastically refreshing, and I vowed to myself to make that preparation one day.

A decade and a half later, on a recent trip to see my family in south Florida, I was out fishing with my younger brother -- quite an accomplished recreational fisherman -- on his new boat, along with his fishing buddy James. We went out late afternoon in the early summer, as the sun cast a pinkish glow on the water and the humidity broke just enough to make the July air tolerable.

And though the catch wasn't as bountiful as we might have hoped, it did yield us a gaggle of very delicious, fresh fish, including three decent-sized yellowtail snappers -- a local fish I adore. Normally, we'd take the fish home and either make a ceviche or sushi out of it, if the particular fish was best enjoyed raw. Or, we'd cook it either simply fried or pan sauteed with accompanying veggie sides. But on this occasion, I was headed back to New York the following day, and the fish would keep if I carried them back on ice in a cooler...which is exactly what I did. My brother and his friend had been patient with me when seasickness relegated me to a beanbag on board, sniffing mint to quell my nausea: they caught the fish and insisted I take the catch. So I told them that the yellowtail were destined for a preparation about which I'd been daydreaming since that afternoon in the San Domenico kitchen. I would invite some friends over and attempt to make Ghanaian-inspired yellowtail snapper.

Back in my Manhattan kitchen, I set to making a dinner for a hot New York City summer night (perfectly authentic to the climate in which this dish might be consumed)! I paired the fish, roasted whole quite simply with salt and pepper and a little oil, with a sauce I made on the side. The ingredients are simple: orange, jalapeno and scotch bonnet chiles, garlic, shallot, and cilantro. I added a splash of vinegar and lime juice and that's pretty much it. I paired it with coconut rice, and some balsamic-honey roasted carrots, and laid the fish on some watercress. It was spicy, and delicious, and has now officially become a part of my fresh fish repertoire. Thank you, Mbulli!

- In a cast iron skillet or on a roasting pan lined with parchment paper -- either one lined with a shmear of canola oil -- place the whole fishes, which have been seasoned with salt and pepper to taste. (You can also stuff the bellies with fresh herbs like parsley and cilantro, as well as slices of citrus, if desired). If cooking in the skillet, sear fish on one side over medium-high heat, for about 5 minutes, and then flip them and place into a 325 degree oven for another 20-25 minutes. If placing directly on a roasting pan, place into that same oven but add 5-10 minutes of cooking time.

- Meanwhile, In a saute pan, place all the remaining ingredients together and simmer over medium-low heat until the flavors begin to meld, about 10 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.

- When the fish is done cooking through, you will be able to easily pull out the pelvic fin -- the little bony fin underneath the fish, in front of its belly. You can also try sticking a small, sharp knife into the thickest part of the fish and if the blade comes out warm to the touch, the fish should be done as well. The entire fish should be firm.

- Serve the fish whole on a platter with the orange-cilantro-chile sauce on the side. This pairs nicely with a rice made with coconut milk, roasted vegetables, and a crisp green like watercress.

Venice: La Serenissima, the only city in the world with streets of water, where we're made to slow down the pace. It's home to delicious seafood and fresh veggies pulled from and grown in the briny waters of the lagoon. And, it's the birthplace of the term ghetto (based on the Venetian dialect term for foundry, original site of the neighborhood that became the ghetto...also gettare in Italian means to toss aside, throw out, which is essentially what happened to the Venetian Jews).

This ghetto was created for Jews in the 16th century and has morphed into terminology for an area into which a specific ethnic or racial group is pushed, isolated. This original ghetto separated the Jews from the rest of the Venetian population, but it also allowed, on some level, for the city's Jewish population to insulate itself and strengthen its traditions, though perhaps not into a singular Venetian Jewish community -- as evidenced by the five different diminutive synagogues in the neighborhood, catering to Italian, German, Levantine, Portuguese-Spanish, and French Jews practicing in Venice.

Venice was truly a city at the crossroads of the spice trade and was the hub of trade routes between the east and the west for centuries before the ghetto was created. Jews were a vibrant and integral part of trade and banking for centuries in the middle ages and early Renaissance, and then once the Inquisition started driving Jews out of Spain and Portugal, many settled in Venice, and its Jewish population grew. So, on March 29th, 1516, the Venetian Jewish ghetto was established, more or less to keep the Jews "in check." Their movement about the city was limited and there were curfews set in the evenings, as entry points on the water were blocked and guarded by Venetian security men in boats. And while this was certainly oppressive and limiting, Jewish cuisine in Venice still flourished. So much of what we think of simply as "Venetian food" or "Roman specialties" or "Sicilian cuisine" originated in the kitchen of Jewish Italians. Artichokes, eggplant, and squash and pumpkins are all examples of food items that were not eaten by non-Jews, even up until the 19th century in many cases. Now it's difficult to imagine Italian cuisine without these items.

One of the signature flavor profiles of typically Jewish-Italian dishes is the element of sweet and sour, or agrodolce, in Italian. This comes from the pairing of vinegar and sugar (and honey well before sugar was widely available in Europe). The use of vinegar to preserve food is a classically Jewish one, because no work is allowed to be done on the sabbath, so all the food for sabbath meals needs to be prepared in advance -- and so the dishes are often served cool or at room temperature, having been cooked the day before. This happy coincidence allows for the flavors to develop, resulting in an even-more-delicious dish eaten a day or two after it was prepared. The sugar added to the vinegar is simply to cut the acidity of the vinegar (or citrus juice, or wine). Pesce en saor is Venice's shining example of a practically-conceived dish in the Jewish cuisine canon, going mainstream (pun intended).

This dish is often made with sardines and called sarde en saor -- it's on most Venetian trattoria menus -- but it can be made with any fish fillets, really, though more oily fish like Spanish mackerel are suited to the sweet-and-sour preparation (they're also good for you, with lots of Omega-3s). A typical pairing would be with polenta, soft if you're making it and serving right away, or made a day in advance, cut into squares, and either served cold or grilled before serving. The addition of carrots and celery is optional, as is the choice of red or white onions. But the raisins and pine nuts are key to matching the sweet and sour flavors of the dish, and add texture and interest. it's the perfect make-ahead dish for Passover, and serves as an interesting substitute for gefilte fish on the American/Ashkenazi Passover table. Try it this year -- you may do as the Venetians have done, and incorporate the dish into your personal repertoire of favorites. HAPPY PASSOVER!

Vietnamese may be my favorite of all the various and wonderful Asian cuisines of the world. And though it breaks my heart that I've still not made it to Vietnam, to actually taste the cuisine in its country of origin, I swear that I will, one day soon, make it to that southeast Asian "motherland" of fine food and gorgeous landscape. Until then, my favorite Vietnamese restaurant for culinary escapism happens to be just a few miles down the road from my parents' home in Boca Raton, Florida at La Tre (yes, this restaurant really is THAT good), and I have the owner's brother's out-of-print cookbook, from when his brother ran a sister restaurant in Connecticut. For some dishes, like this one, I no longer need the recipe -- that's how often I make this amazingly delicious and simple salad. But I'll provide my version of it now, for my readers.

This is a salad that's equally delicious in winter as it is in the summer. It's always refreshing, but it's also reminiscent of the Sicilian fennel-blood orange-olive salad that I'm so fond of in winter months.

This is when the citrus in the U.S. is at its peak, so enjoying this salad between Thanksgiving and Easter will get you that wonderful Florida grapefruit -- or even pomelo, which was probably the original fruit used in this dish -- at its sweetest and juiciest. Called goi-ga in Vietnamese, this salad is easily prepared and tossed in a flavor-rich, balanced, umami-packed dressing. It feels indulgent, but really, it's an incredibly healthy, light meal, or precursor to one.

It is winter in New York. And while this year has been a much milder winter season than in recent years, it's still February. It's still cold in spells and we're all still starved for sun, birds chirping, and the sun setting after 6 pm. Personally, I was really looking forward to a fantastic 2016...and then promptly got sick on January 1st. And again on January 31st. So, I've had a lot of "down time," as it were, to ponder life, and what to eat. I've had plenty of cozy hours indoors, as a sick couch potato and a binge-watcher and a reader and a daydreamer, and in all of this time, I've been making a lot of soups. This is nothing new for me for the early part of the year, and soups are a very healthy way to warm the bones and fill up with a great bowl of healthy tasty stuff. I've made some of the usuals in my repertoire: Tuscan white bean and kale soup, butternut squash puree, Asian beef broth with noodles and veggies, and of course Jewish penicillin a.k.a. matzo ball soup. But while I was between cold and flu, in mid-January, I had a partial Roman posse over for a dinner party -- they were my ladies who were in from Rome and Boston and Rhode Island and some from the NY metro area, and I of course wanted to feed them well.

After appetizers and stuzzichini and prosecco in the living room, we started in on the meal with a creamy pureed mushroom soup. This was inspired by an amazing version my friend Jessica ordered in Santiago, Chile, at a very spiffy restaurant called Puerto Fuy (see http://bluaubergine.blogspot.com/2015/01/escapes-santiago-chile.html). It was the essence of mushroom earthiness, but it was also somehow light as air. I wanted to recreate that, not only because it was so delicious, but also because my friend Jessica was in attendance at my dinner party, and it had been pretty much exactly two years since we'd eaten that sublime soup. Also, Jessica declares that she is "over chewing" -- and as a result, she tends to puree everything she possibly can. She appreciated my efforts on behalf of her jaw! But really, I was incorporating two of the healthiest, anti-carcinogenic foods (mushrooms and onions) together in one dish. The recipe is simple because I wanted the soup to be a distilled essence. I wanted to taste the variety of mushrooms that went into the soup, and little else. So that's how I made it. I topped it off with fresh thyme and a gastrique of blackberries and balsamic, inspired by the Italian idea of "frutti del bosco" -- literally translated, it's "fruits of the forest," and that's what blackberries and mushrooms are. In Rome, the old lady in my local market square where I sourced porcini and funghi of all kinds sold only two things: mushrooms and berries, in theory, two items that could have been gathered in one trip to the forest. Frutti del bosco. Here they are, and here is my recipe. This is for you, Jess, and for our trip to Chile, and for the old mushroom lady in Campo de Fiori who is no more. Enjoy it on one of these cold winter nights.

- Bring 2 cups of water to a boil, and pour over dried porcini mushrooms in a bowl to soak for at least 10 minutes.- Wipe mushrooms clean with a damp cloth, cut off stems with dirt attached, and give them all a rough chop so they're all roughly the same size (1/4 - 1/2 inch pieces)- In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat. Toss in the onion and garlic and saute for 60 seconds to soften. Lower the heat slightly and sweat the onion and garlic for another 3 minutes.- Add the mushrooms, bit by bit, just so there are enough to cover the bottom of the pan. When they cook down a bit, add another bunch to the pot. Continue this way until all of the mushrooms are cooking (and losing water) in the pot. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.- Remove the soaking porcini from the water with your hands, and ring out the mushrooms so they have as little water content as possible (keep the water!). Chop these and add them to the cooking mushrooms in the pot.- Strain the mushroom soaking liquid through a mesh strainer lined with a paper towel, to catch any sediment, into a bowl.- Add the mushroom soaking liquid and mushroom or vegetable stock to the mushrooms in the pot. Allow this to come to a boil, then turn down the heat to low and allow to simmer for 30 minutes, so the flavors meld. You can add a touch of thyme and/or rosemary at this point (but sparingly -- otherwise the herbs tend to taste medicinal).- Using an immersion blender, puree the mushrooms and stock until smooth. At this point, add the heavy cream and adjust for salt and pepper. Blend again. The soup can be thinned with additional stock if necessary.

Soup can be served with a fresh herb garnish and a blackberry gastrique: simply cook a pint or two of blackberries in a small saucepan with a pinch of salt, a couple of tablespoons of sugar, and 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar. Puree in a blender or food processor when done, and strain through a mesh sieve into a squirt bottle. Simply squeeze a swirl of blackberry gastrique onto the top of the mushroom soup just before serving.

In the dead of winter, when it's full-on season for soups and stews and slow-cooked meats, and root vegetables rule the local bistro menus...well, I enjoy indulging in languid winter cooking and eating rituals, but sometimes I could really use a little culinary levity. And I think if anyone understands this feeling, it's the Sicilians. They are blessed not only with a temperate island climate -- even mid-winter -- but also with an abundance of cheery citrus fruit throughout the winter, including the amazingly delicious and colorful blood oranges.

Fennel is a vegetable that straddles root veg and refreshing stalk, an anise-perfumed crunchy salad base when raw, which is incidentally really the only way I like my fennel. Add to this pairing of fragrant crispness and sunny, sweet-tart citrus a bit of the local briny olive (Castelvetrano is my green Sicilian favorite), and you've got a trio made in heaven. I toss it all with a bit of extra virgin olive oil -- Sicilian if you can get your hands on it -- some sea salt (from Trapani would be ideal), and a little of the citrus juice that remains in the bowl over which you cut the blood oranges and grapefruit. It's sort of a naturally-occurring citronette, and it's all the dressing this salad needs. Finish it off with some of the fennel fronds as a bit of an herbal touch, and you're done. Unless, of course, you want to toss a few almonds or pine nuts onto the salad -- perfectly acceptable Sicilian nuts that work with the salad and add a little healthy fat and a little crunch into the mix. This salad is my antidote to the heavy midwinter food blues. And it's gorgeous on the plate! Buon appetito!

QUICK BITE: Bone Broth, Your Way

It's the dead of winter, and the entire east coast has just been hit with a major blizzard. This past weekend was, as they say, perfect "cooking project" weather. And it still is: perfect for a good, long simmer of beef bones thick with marrow on the stove, perfuming the air of your home and warming your kitchen. And then, once this broth is made, you can do so much with it. It's great just as is, of course. Much has been made of a "bone broth" revolution of sorts. Really, this is just broth, stock, whatever your want to call it -- that's been the base of soup and sauce recipes for ages.

Some say to roast the bones and veggies in the oven first; I usually like to keep in uncomplicated when cooking this at home, and just use one pot -- a great big soup pot that's wide enough so that you can first roast the beef bones in one layer. I use a mix of marrow bones and some with a little meat on them, like short ribs or oxtail. I encourage a little caramelization with some tomato concentrate on top of the bones, and roast them on the stovetop or oven first until browned. Then I add the the carrots, onions, and celery (leeks and shallots if you're feeling it), along with lots of water, peppercorns, and a bay leaf. And really, that's it. This needs to simmer slow and low for as few as 6 hours, and as many as 24. Skim the ft occasionally from the top, and when it's done, strain it, cool it down and then place in storage containers in the fridge to completely cool overnight. This allows you to easily scrape the fat off the top the next day.

Now, the fun part. of course, you can sip the beef broth as is, even in a mug like the most restorative cup of coffee and lunch, combined. But the great thing about making a huge potload of beef broth is getting creative with it! You can freeze some in ice cube trays and then store in a ziploc bag in the freezer for use in sauces and individual servings later on. You can add some noodles and some vegetables and have a beef noodle soup. You can caramelize a pan full of sliced onions, sprinkle with flour, and add the broth for a wonderful French onion soup (top with a baguette slice and gruyere cheese for the real deal!).

Or, make a wonderful, healthy, super-tasty Vietnamese-inspired version, like you see here. I took the basic beef broth and simmered it with a bit of soy sauce, fish sauce, rice wine vinegar, pineapple chunks, chopped lemongrass, kaffir lime leaf, star anise, szechuan peppercorns, coriander seed, and chili pepper. The broth was infused with all of these warm and spicy notes over the course of about 2 hours.

Just before serving, I added some rice noodles, thinly-sliced bok choy, fresh cilantro and mint, a healthy squeeze of lime juice, and a bit of sriracha sauce, both blended in and drizzled on top. This is an incredibly fortifying soup-as-meal that's great both in cold weather and in hot. It's both edifying and refreshing. And it's utterly satisfying. You can create your own variations on this Asian noodle soup theme: add some red or green curry paste, a protein of choice, any kind of greens, herbs, citrus, spices. Have fun playing with your food! Keep warm, and keep cooking...

RECIPE: Thai-Inflected Turkey Curry Soup

There are thousands of recipes for what to make with the leftovers after a big Thanksgiving feast. I always love to make stock with the bones left from the main feast, and I use it to make a collection of turkey broth-based soups that are perfect for lunches and dinners in the days following "turkey day." One of the wonderful things about soup is that it freezes so well; when you get sick of seeing turkey anything, freeze the soup and take it out when it entices again (or when you're feeling lazy and don't feel like cooking yet another meal!).

In this recipe, I've gone in a very different direction from good old American turkey noodle soup. In fact, I've taken Thai spices and flavorings and made a soup that can be anywhere from "lightly Asian-inspired" to full-on Thai spicy goodness. Based on the ingredients you have on hand, and your mood, you decide. Enjoy!

- In a large pot, warm the oil until it shimmers, then add the diced carrots, celery, and onion. Sweat these vegetables over low heat for about 5 minutes, until they begin to soften. - Add the red curry paste, lemongrass, and kaffir lime leaf, and stir over medium-high heat until fragrant, about one minute. Add the rice wine vinegar and cook for about 2 minutes.- Add the turkey broth and the coconut milk, and bring the soup to a boil.- Once boiling, turn the heat down to medium-low. Add the red peppers and the haricot vert, and the shredded turkey meat, and let the flavors meld, pot covered, for about 10 minutes.- Taste and adjust for flavor and seasoning, adding fish sauce if it needs salt (alternatively just add salt).- Just before serving, add the cilantro and the juice of one lime, and serve topped with peanuts and a lime wedge.

It's taken me several days to process what happened in the Paris attacks. And while, unfortunately, these attacks in the French capital are not the only horrible terrorist events to have happened recently, they are getting a lot of attention because they were foisted on an innocent public used to freedom, liberty, and a very sophisticated standard of living, and because, well, Paris is Paris. This does not diminish the gravity of the attacks in Lebanon, or over Sinai, or in Africa or Syria or anywhere else around the world. My heart goes out to all victims of terrorist attacks, of any nationality, and these attacks are all too frequent. But today, here on the blog, in honor of the French and particularly the food culture they've given the rest of the world, I am dedicating this blog post to French cuisine. And in particular, the crepe.

I was schooled in classic French cuisine as the gold standard in culinary school. Still, I am an Italophile myself, admittedly preferring the Italian way of doing most things over the French way -- when you're able to tell the difference, that is (in reality, that's only about half of the time). But I'll readily admit that the French have contributed many amazing things to the world, not the least of which is French food. They've given us a number of dishes that no one else, in my opinion, has been able to equal or improve upon, items like: cassoulet, choucroute garnie, beef tartar...escargot with butter and parsley, pissaladiere, salade nicoise...chocolate mousse, the croissant, the baguette, and bread and patisserie in general. If you're not familiar with any of the dishes I mentioned, look them up, and then go eat them. The sooner the better.

Now, back to the crepes. These are light, thin little pancakes that differ from your fluffy breakfast variety with the addition of melted butter. Crepes can be prepared to be either savory or sweet. They can be filled with bananas and drizzled with dark chocolate sauce. They can be covered in a mixed berry sauce. They can be topped with a sugary butter, and doused in orange juice and Grand Marnier and set aflame for Crepes Suzette.

In New York, we have a bakery called Lady M that makes crepe cakes: multi-layered affairs with chocolate icing in between the layers, or made with the addition of green tea in the crepes themselves and in the filling between the layers. This is not a bad way to go for a special occasion dessert, and it's not difficult to do yourself at home. Then there are the delicious Nutella-filled crepes (they go really well with raspberries or strawberries): the Italian-ification of a sweet crepe dessert.

As for savory crepes? Well, there's the famous beggar's purse: a small crepe filled with creme fraiche and caviar, tied with a chive, made famous by the Quilted Giraffe restaurant in Manhattan. I made a version of those crepes at a recent pop-up dinner (Chanel 'beggar's purses'). Of course savory crepes are great as breakfast or brunch dishes. They're great "containers" for eggs and ham and cheese, a very French trio indeed.

And the Italians eat savory crepes in place of pasta, sauced in a casserole in favorite comfort food dishes like crespelle alla fiorentina (crepes filled with a ricotta and spinach mixture, rolled, and sauced with some besciamella and/or tomato sauce, and baked in the oven like lasagna). They can be stuffed with anything, really -- sauces, pasta fillings, meats and cheeses, vegetables and more vegetables. The crepe is like a blank canvas, and on this basic, gorgeously light and thin pancake, we can create whatever we decide we'd like to eat, or to celebrate. It's all up to you, to us. Vive la France! Vive la crêpe!

-Combine the flour, salt, and milk and beat with a whisk until smooth.

-Beat in the eggs and stir in the melted butter until blended.

-If time allows, set in the fridge for an hour or so to allow the batter to rest.

-Place a small non-stick skillet with shallow sides over medium heat. When a drop of water skitters over the surface before evaporating, add a pat of butter.

- Ladle about a tablespoon of batter into the pan and swirl it around quickly and evenly so that it forms a thin layer on the bottom of the pan. (Pour excess batter back into the bowl if there is any).

-The batter will dry pretty quickly. When the batter is no longer a liquid on top, in a minute or less, turn the crepe and cook it on the other side for 15-30 seconds. The crepe should brown only slightly and not become crispy. Repeat with the rest of the batter.

To serve savory crepes, fill with any combination of vegetables, cheese, ham, etc. Fold and roll. They can be eaten as is, or arranged side-by-side in a baking dish and covered with brown butter, or besciamella sauce, or tomato sauce, or any sauce you’d like.

Alternatively, one way Italians serve crepes is to roll them up and slice them (like a basil chiffonade), then open them up and have a kind of crepe pasta – which can then be tossed with any kind of sauce.

The name is wonderfully poetic: shakshuka. Shahk-SHOO-kuh. It means "a mixture," and it's a dish of north African origin -- one that's been fully embraced by Israeli culture, enough so to become something like a national breakfast dish. Shakshuka is to Israelis what bacon-and-eggs is to Americans. Its name may have Berber roots (chakchouka is a vegetable ragout), though shakshek means to shake in Hebrew, Berber, and Tunisian Arabic -- so the word's origin may in fact be ancient (and extinct) punic in origin. That's a dish with some history behind it! Its popularity in Israel, however, can be traced to the Tunisian and Maghrebi Jews who emigrated to Israel by the hundreds of thousands in the 1950s. Versions of, and variations on, the dish exist all over the Mediterranean and Middle Eastern worlds, from Spain to Turkey, Yemen to Libya to Egypt...even over to Mexico.

The common thread is eggs cooked in a vegetable sauce, often tomato-based and spicy, but not exclusively. Here, I will focus on a few iterations that are Israeli, that I've either eaten in Israel or made myself, inspired by Israeli versions of this savory dish. The photo at right was taken at Benedict, a chain of restaurants in Tel Aviv open 24 hours a day and serving breakfast food. There's nothing better than a night out of drinking in the bars and along the beach in Tel Aviv, followed by shakshuka and Israeli salad with pita bread and various dips and sauces, all downed with a glass of champagne at 4 am! But this breakfast-all-day dish is also great as a light lunch with a green salad, or as a dinner: it's vegetarian, kosher, and gluten-free (as long as you don't sop up the remaining saucy goodness with some bread, which would kind of be a shame to miss out on...but if you're going low-carb or gluten-free, this dish sans bread product is ideal). I recently made the dish for my boyfriend's family visiting from Texas -- heavy on the peppers, as I had an abundance of them -- and they loved the dish. I've been wanting to share this favorite of mine, so this past weekend's brunch was a reminder and inspiration for the recipe below.

Now, the dish itself has so many variations that it's impossible to claim that one way of cooking it is the absolute 'original'. It's a dish that's meant to be switched up, modified, pared-down or gussied-up according to personal taste, seasonality of ingredients, and the whims of the cook preparing it.

Dr. Shakshuka is a classic spot just inside the walls of the old city of Jaffa, at the south end of Tel Aviv along the Mediterranean. The Libyan owners prepare their Tripolian version of shakshuka, with plenty of variations, and the atmosphere is rustic and charming.

This is a great spot to try the dish for the first time. But for armchair travelers and those who may never make it to the "Holy Land," here are the basics: the classic version has a tomato base. When tomatoes are in season, summer and into early fall, use fresh tomatoes. In cooler months, use the best quality canned tomatoes you can find. It's the same thing I tell all of my cooking students about making a great tomato sauce for pasta.

And, as for consistency and flavor, I've found that the best results actually come from a mix of in-season, ripe and juicy fresh tomatoes with a touch of canned, top-quality San Marzano tomatoes, mixed together. If you use great tomatoes, there's no need for the addition of tomato paste. I also add peppers (usually red peppers, or a mix of red and yellow), as well as onions and a bit of garlic. Plenty of chili pepper, anything from fresh jalapenos to dried Calabrian Italian chilis, but you can experiement to taste. I also usually add a bit of za'atar, a spice blend from the region consisting of dried herbs like thyme and oregano, plus sesame seeds and sumac powder. Cumin and coriander are also nice touches. I always finish with some fresh parsley, and sometimes fresh cilantro too, though scallions and/or chives are a nice finishing touch as well.

It must also be noted that a major variant on the dish is green shakshuka. I know, I know -- you were just getting a grip on the original version! But trust me, you'll want to experiment with the green version too. The base here can be anything green but it's particularly good with a green tomato base, or a tangy tomatillo base (tomatillos are not green tomatoes! They are actually part of the corn family, husked as they are, but that's another discussion).

The tomatillos would be cooked down much like tomatoes, with onions and green peppers and garlic and chilis, and then once the eggs are nearly cooked, you add a little fresh spinach, as in the photo here (taken at another cute cafe in northern Tel Aviv). Maybe some arugula or other greens for a nice touch, and you're done. You can even add a glug of green tabasco if you want to carry through the theme. And if you really want to go all-out, as I did when I made an elaborate Israeli brunch for my extended family in Florida not long ago, you can pair the green and red shakshuka side-by-side for comparison. Each version has its devotees, but either way I think you'll find it's a great addition to any home cook's repertoire. L'Chaim!

SHAKSHUKA

Serves 4-6

I usually allow 2 eggs per person, but let appetite be your guide. Also, a cast iron skillet is really best for this dish, though even nonstick works well.

3 garlic cloves, finely chopped (or left whole if you want just a light garlic flavor)

4 medium-sized vine-ripened fresh tomatoes (in season)

14 oz. canned chopped San Marzano tomatoes

1.5 TBS. kosher salt

1 tsp. sugar

black pepper to taste

1 tsp. Hungarian (sweet) paprika

1/2 tsp. ground cumin

1/2 tsp. ground coriander

1 tsp. za'atar (optional)

8-12 fresh organic eggs

2 TBSP. chopped fresh flat leaf parsley and/or fresh cilantro

- Heat the oil in a large skillet. Add the onions and peppers and sauté over medium heat until softened, 5 to 8 minutes. Add the chili pepper and fresh tomatoes and cook to combine flavors, another 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and sauté for another 2 minutes.

- Add the canned tomatoes (make it a full 28-oz. can if you're not using any fresh tomatoes).

- Stir in the salt and pepper, sugar, paprika, cumin, coriander, and za'atar, and cook for 15 minutes, covered, to soften all the ingredients to the saucy stage.

- Uncover and crack the eggs into the tomato mixture. Cover and simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the whites of the eggs are opaque and the yolks are cooked to your preferred consistency.

Made this last night, and out of the three recipes I've tried so far, this was my favorite -- it came out very fragrant. I added fresh feta towards the end and served it with grilled bread for dipping.

I was living in Rome, but was home for my usual late August-early September visit in 2001. On September 10th, having dealt with the bureaocracy and lines at the Italian Consulate as I awaited my visa, I decided to head way downtown to the Financial District to pick up some paperwork from my bank and to do a little shopping at Century 21, literally right next door to the Twin Towers. I don't think anybody could walk anywhere near them and not look up and marvel at such an architectural feat. The sky was as clear as I'd ever seen it, and it was the kind of day about which people feel compelled to comment: "Isn't it just gorgeous out?" Every New Yorker here that day remembers the weather. Eerily beautiful.

Looking up at the towers, I had a flashback to when my Dad used to have an office there, somewhere around the 95th floor. I remember taking a day off of school to spend the day in the office with him, maybe once or twice a year. I'd amuse myself writing stories and letters on a gigantic electric typewriter (technology!), and we'd watch out of the oversized windows as planes approached La Guardia and were noticeably lower to the ground than we were. Imagine that! We'd ride the elevator down for lunch, and in less than 30 seconds, we'd be on the ground floor -- though I always had to swallow lots of times because my ears popped on the ride zooming through the elevator shaft at lightning speed. There was so much life, so much bustle, in those big buildings and the plaza out front. For me, as a little girl, Manhattan was anchored by Broadway theaters and ballets at Lincoln Center uptown, and the World Trade Center downtown. But really, the Twin Towers were New York City.

The morning of September 11th, 2001, I had an appointment with the Italian Consulate to pick up my visa at 10:30 a.m., before returning to Rome on September 12th. My whole family was coming into the city for dinner before my departure the following day. That morning, my roommate Jessica woke me up around 8:55. She said "you'd better come out here and see this." It did not bode well.

Jessica and I stood frozen in front of our TV, mouths agape, as we watched the first tower burn. We saw the second plane hit the south tower live on television. We were watching a horror story unfold in real time, and our minds were racing, trying to figure out who we knew down there, in the towers, in the vicinity. And my first instinct was to wonder how New York City, its policemen and women and special forces would figure out how to get everyone down from the top floors: incredibly obtuse, I know, but I couldn't accept the reality that we would lose so many innocent lives because of a couple of insane acts of hatred and some random corporate real estate decisions. I thought of all the people who worked alongside my father in the towers, some of them still working there, no doubt. Fellow chefs at Windows on the World. Colleagues and friends and fellow humans of every stripe -- everyone in New York knew someone in the Twin Towers.

And in the midst of all of this, who could eat? Not I, not us. I don't remember anything about food in those days, those weeks. I stayed in New York trying to help, signing up to feed the first responders or bring food to fire houses, but there was no room -- everywhere I turned I was put on waitlists, the excess of volunteers wanting to help actually outweighing the need or the capacity. I felt helpless again, but this time I was reassured by the outpouring of support everyone was showing. I wasn't so anxious to return to Italy on the first flight out -- I was with my people, my fellow New Yorkers, in a moment of great weakness, and great strength.

Cooking brings me great comfort. I realize it doesn't work like that for everybody, but I think cooking -- especially baking, with its methodical processes -- calms the soul. And so, on this September 11th, fourteen years later, the food-related thing I thought to share on my blog is a recipe for the most American of comfort foods: apple pie. (It's not my recipe, but Rose Levy Beranbaum is a trusted expert). My Italian friends love it. Americans can't help but love it. And of course, what's more representative of The Big Apple?

1. Cut the butter into small (about 3/4-inch) cubes. Wrap it in plastic wrap and freeze it until frozen solid, at least 30 minutes. Place the flour, salt, and baking powder in a reclosable gallon-size freezer bag and freeze for at least 30 minutes.

2. Place the flour mixture in a food processor with the metal blade and process for a few seconds to combine. Set the bag aside.

3. Cut the cream cheese into 3 or 4 pieces and add it to the flour. Process for about 20 seconds or until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add the frozen butter cubes and pulse until none of the butter is larger than the size of peas; toss with a fork to see it better. Remove the cover and add the water and vinegar. Pulse until most of the butter is reduced to the size of small peas. The mixture will be in particles and will not hold together. Spoon it into the plastic bag and for a double pie crust divide the mixture in half at this point.

4. Holding both ends of the bag opening with your fingers, knead the mixture by alternately pressing it from the outside of the bag with the knuckles and heels of your hands until the mixture holds together in one piece and feels slightly stretchy when pulled.

5. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap, flatten it into a disk, and refrigerate it for at least 45 minutes and preferably overnight.

6. Remove the dough for the bottom crust from the refrigerator. If necessary, allow it to sit for about 10 minutes or until it is soft enough to roll.

7. On a floured pastry cloth or between two sheets of lightly floured plastic wrap, roll the bottom crust 1/8-inch thick or less and 12 inches in diameter. Transfer it to a 9-inch pie pan. Trim the edge almost even with the edge of the pan. Cover it with plastic wrap and refrigerate it for a minimum of 30 minutes and a maximum of 3 hours.

For the filling:

8. In a large bowl, combine the apples, lemon juice, sugars, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt and toss to mix. Allow the apples to macerate at room temperature for a minimum of 30 minutes and a maximum of 3 hours.

9. Transfer the apples and their juices to a colander suspended over a bowl to capture the liquid. The mixture will release at least 1/2 cup of liquid.

10. In a small saucepan (preferably nonstick), over medium-high heat, boil down this liquid, with the butter, to about 1/3 cup (a little more if you started with more than 1/2 cup of liquid), or until syrupy and lightly caramelized. Swirl the liquid but do not stir it. Meanwhile, transfer the apples to a bowl and toss them with the cornstarch until all traces of it have disappeared.

Pour the syrup over the apples, tossing gently. (Do not be concerned if the liquid hardens on contact with the apples; it will dissolve during baking.)

11. Roll out the top crust large enough to cut a 12-inch circle. Use an expandable flan ring or a cardboard template and a sharp knife as a guide to cut the circle.

12. Transfer the apple mixture to the pie shell. Moisten the border of the bottom crust by brushing it lightly with water and place the top crust over the fruit. Tuck the overhang under the bottom crust border and press down all around the top to seal it. Crimp the border using a fork or your fingers and make about 5 evenly spaced 2-inch slashes starting about 1 inch from the center and radiating toward the edge. Cover the pie loosely with plastic wrap and refrigerate it for 1 hour before baking to chill and relax the pastry. This will maintain flakiness and help to keep the crust from shrinking.

13. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees at least 20 minutes before baking. Set an oven rack at the lowest level and place a baking stone or baking sheet on it before preheating. Place a large piece of greased foil on top to catch any juices.

14. Set the pie directly on the foil-topped baking stone and bake for 45 to 55 minutes or until the juices bubble through the slashes and the apples feel tender but not mushy when a cake tester or small sharp knife is inserted through a slash. After 30 minutes, protect the edges from overbrowning by covering them with a foil ring.

15. Cool the pie on a rack for at least 4 hours before cutting. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The name itself is a puzzling one. It roughly translates to "tuna-ed veal." It actually sounded full-on disgusting to me before I ever tasted the dish, back in my days as a college student studying abroad in Tuscany. Then I tried it. Let's just say it became an instant favorite. Now, if it's summertime, and it's too warm to eat a hot main course, I'll always go for the tonnato -- from Sant Ambroeus in Southampton to Trattoria Ponte Sisto in Rome, this is my hot weather order of choice. And sometimes, if I'm feeling ambitious, or I'm having guests, I'll make it myself. It's always best that way, isn't it?

Vitello tonnato is a dish that the north of Italy can lay claim to, specifically the Piemonte region. It can also be made with pork (as in the photo above) or turkey, but veal is the classic. It's served at room temperature or chilled, which makes it an excellent summertime main course.

It's traditionally prepared a day in advance, to let the flavors really combine well. The cut of veal used is generally the eye round (a cut from the hind leg), sliced thin once it's cooked and has "rested" for a day in the fridge. The meat is braised in water/white wine/vinegar with some herbs and spices, or stock, or if you're really going thorough and old-school, you add olive oil-packed Italian tuna to the cooking liquid, and this braising liquid then becomes the base of the sauce -- this way the flavors of the two star ingredients blend and meld into a tastier whole. A homemade mayonnaise is then prepared by whisking together egg yolks, vegetable and olive oils, and a touch of vinegar as the basic base, to which the tuna is added. There is some argument as to whether or not the sauce gets slathered over all slices so that they may marinate in the sauce for several hours, or it the cooked veal gets sliced and served alongside a slightly thicker sauce for you to dip into or spread on the slices as you like. There is no argument, however, that capers are a must when serving.

Preparation

Truss the veal with cotton string, so that it resembles a roast. Place the meat in a heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven and cover with tuna, onion, celery, carrot, bay leaf, parsley, wine, broth, salt and pepper, then heat over a high flame until it comes to a boil. Immediately reduce heat to very low, cover and simmer for 45 minutes, or until the internal temperature of the veal reaches 130 degrees.

Remove meat to a large, nonreactive bowl, strain the broth over it, cover and allow the meat to cool in the refrigerator, preferably overnight. (Discard the solids.)

While the meat cools, put yolks in a medium bowl and beat with a wire whisk. Begin to add oil as you beat, a thin stream at first, adding more as each bit is incorporated. When a thick emulsion forms, you can add oil at a slightly faster rate. The entire process should take 5 to 7 minutes, and you may not use all of the oil.

Add tuna, anchovies and caper brine to a food processor, and pulse. Add the mayo and pulse to puree into a thick mixture. Add a few tablespoons of the veal broth to thin the sauce slightly. Add lemon juice to taste, and more broth if the sauce needs thinning. Taste for salt. The sauce should not taste overly mayonnaise-y but should be reminiscent of the best quality mayo.

Remove the cooled veal from its broth, untie and cut across the grain into very thin slices. Smear the sauce on the bottom of the platter. Arrange the veal slices neatly on a platter with the edges of the slices overlapping, and spoon the tuna sauce over the top. You can place another layer of veal and repeat, but don't do more than two layers on one plate. Cover and return to refrigerator overnight or until ready to use. Garnish with capers or fried capers, lemon, hard-boiled eggs, or sprigs of parsley. Alternatively, you can slice the veal and serve the sauce in the center of the plate or on the side.

It's a classic Roman dish that never goes out of style, though there are many renditions of this cucina romana staple: saltimbocca alla romana. The name saltimbocca literally means "jumps in the mouth," which is what a great version of this dish should do, in terms of flavor. The elements are simple: great quality, super thinly-sliced veal scaloppine (though the dish works surprisingly well with chicken or turkey scaloppine as well -- just don't tell any Romans I said so!). Top-quality prosciutto. Fresh sage leaf. Local white wine. Good quality olive oil and butter, and a spritz of lemon and/or white wine vinegar. And that's it. No cheese, please. And for even cooking and simplicity's sake, I don't roll the scaloppine up. Flour is negotiable: coat the scaloppine in a light dusting of flour if you'd like a more pronounced crust to the meat and a slightly thicker sauce. But really, the beauty of the preparation is also its simplicity, like most great Italian dishes.

SALTIMBOCCA ALLA ROMANA

(4 servings)

4 large slices prosciutto, thinly sliced

4 large veal scallopes, about 3/4 lb. total weight

4 fresh sage leaves

AP flour for dusting (optional)

salt & pepper to taste

6 TBS. butter

2 TBS. olive oil

6 TBS. dry white wine

Juice of one lemon or 2 TBSP. white wine vinegar

- Place a slice of prosciutto over each veal slice, so it’s just slightly smaller than the piece of veal.

- Place a sage leaf in the middle of the prosciutto and secure with a wooden toothpick.

- Dredge in flour mixed with a bit of salt and pepper, if desired

- Heat 2 TBS. butter and 2 TBS. oil in a large skillet.

- When foam subsides, add the meat, prosciutto side down.

- Brown on both sides until golden.

- Remove meat from pan and transfer to serving dish.

- Add wine to skillet, and stir to mix up the browned bits in the pan. Add lemon juice/vinegar here if desired.

- Turn up heat and let the sauce bubble for 1-3 minutes, to reduce to about 1/3 cup of liquid.

- Add the remaining 4 TBS. butter to the pan, a bit at a time, swirling to melt as you go.

- Taste and adjust seasoning, then place veal back in pan to heat through and glaze with sauce. Remove veal and place on a serving platter, pour sauce over meat, and serve.

It's a classic central Italian pairing: Lenticchie e Salsiccia. Lentils and sausage. It reminds me of trips out to Umbria, usually in the fall or winter, and sometimes early spring. We'd spend a Sunday afternoon in Orvieto, enjoying the gorgeous churches and small shops, as well as some surprisingly sophisticated restaurants, in this hill town an hour outside of Rome. Or, we'd head out for a weekend in the country to a friend's house on the Tuscan-Umbrian border, just taking in the view and building fires and looking up at the stars after a full-table feast of simple, local fare. Or we'd visit friends in Citta' di Castello, not far from Lake Trasimeno, sharing a lunch al fresco with lots of local, juicy, dark Sagrantino di Montefalco wine.

Umbria is Italy's only landlocked region that doesn't share a border with another country. Its name echoes ombra, the Italian word for "shadow" -- and it seems to have always been in the shadow of its better-known neighbors, like Tuscany and Lazio. But the region has so much going for it, including the beautiful topography and a history as rich as its cuisine. One of its famous local foods is the Umbrian lentil, which is tawny brown and roughly the size of the tiny green French Puy lentil. Umbrian lentils are often featured in local dishes, and are a great foil for the rich game featured so prominently in this region.

I'd also be remiss if I didn't mention another great Umbrian contribution to Italian cuisine, which is the concept of the norcineria. There's no direct translation for the word, but it's basically a 'meat emporium,' including and especially pork products, fresh and cured. Norcia is a town in the province of Perugia in Southeast Umbria, nestled between Spoleto and Ascoli Piceno (in the Le Marche region).

The town is famous for its meat emporiums, and so this kind of shop all over central Italy has taken on the moniker norcineria. I did once make it to "ground zero" in Norcia on a trip to my ex's childhood home near Ascoli Piceno, and we picked up some delicious pancetta and a few other items to cook for dinner at his mother's house. But the important thing is not procuring these meats in Norcia itself, but rather the significance of the quality norcineria, wherever you may find one. I often went to the Norcineria Viola in Rome's Campo de' Fiori, as it was close to home and they had a great selection, offered up assaggi (samples), and the owners were a hoot.

If you're lucky enough to be cooking the following recipe in Italy, a norcineria would be the prime spot to pick up some delicious, house-made sausages. And if you don't have a go-to 'meat emporium' -- well, a butcher (preferably Italian) or Italian specialty store would be second-best. But anywhere you trust the sausage makers qualifies; the quality is key. And a tip: generally speaking, though Tuscany is the next region over, this dish does not use Tuscan-style sausages, which contain fennel seed. Try and use sausages without that anise flavor...if you're sticking to tradition, that is.

- Warm the oil over medium heat in a wide saucepan with some depth (and one with a fitted lid). Add the garlic cloves and infuse the olive oil for a minute or so.

- Add the chopped carrots, celery, and onion, and cook to soften, about 4 minutes. Sprinkle with salt and cook another minute.

- Add the lentils, stir well, and cover with cold water until submerged and with a bit of water above the lentils. Bring to a boil, add a couple of small sprigs of rosemary, and cover. Turn down the heat to low and let simmer for 30 minutes or so, until the lentils are cooked through and most of the liquid is absorbed. Add salt and pepper to taste.

*Lentils can be cooked in advance to this point*

- When the lentils are almost ready, or you're reheating them, heat a grill pan or a frying pan over medium-high heat, and add enough olive oil to just cover the bottom of the pan. - Brown the sausages on both sides, making sure not to crowd the pan (we want them seared, not steamed).

- When sausages are fully browned, toss in the red wine and the water and let the liquid cook down and bubble up for a few minutes. Then cover, an cook for another 10 minutes or so.

- Plate the warm lentils on a serving platter, and then place the sausages on top of the bed of lentils. You can either use the wine gravy as is, or add a spoonful of a dijon mustard and whisk that into the sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste.

- Pour the sauce over the sausages and lentils, and sprinkle with chopped parsley and serve.

About me

I am a chef and caterer, freelance food and travel writer and restaurant critic, cooking teacher, culinary tour guide, and food and restaurant consultant. I lived and cooked in Italy for many years and now divide my time between NYC, Rome, and when I can...traveling the world for inspiration. Pull up a chair! There's always room at the table with me...